


The End of an Age

by Oreramar



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Gen, I am intrigued by the world of the first avatar but it is seldom explored, One-Shot, Short, The First Avatar - Freeform, even this is just barely a poke at the subject, from the time of wan's exile to his return after closing the spirit portals, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8024134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oreramar/pseuds/Oreramar
Summary: Wan's exile, convergence, and the end of the era of Lion Turtle cities, as seen through the Huntsman's eyes.





	The End of an Age

 It had only been talk. His astonishment - and occasional frustration - was such that it needed to be shared, and the stories such that he never lost an equally (and gratifyingly) astonished audience. His tales had never had such impact before - hear of one encounter with a spirit and you have heard of them all - and they had seemed so harmless, especially at first.

“I sent that coward Wan back hours after we left; two days later he prevented us from taking a catdeer we had snared. We lost him when a spirit attacked. What was he even doing out there?”

That time he had been the one in for a surprising tale - theft of fire, theft of supplies, rebellion, banishment. They had all agreed that even if Wan had survived a night in the wilds, even if he had fire, he was most likely dead by now, or at least as good as - the spirit had not been friendly, and while the Huntsman hadn’t lingered to see Wan’s fate (for the justified fear of sharing it), it was a foregone conclusion. Almost a shame; for all that he had proven a criminal, the boy had more guts than the Huntsman had granted him. Too bad he hadn’t used them to make something better of himself. Squandered potential, but it was done and past now.

But then, in the following months…

“Looks like Wan survived the spirit - we ran across him while we were pushing further into the wilds than usual. He stole some of our supplies and led us on a chase until he vanished. If I ever get my hands on him he’ll _wish_ that spirit got him.”

“He’s still alive. His luck is uncanny; ran right past some spirit-infested plants and they never twitched a leaf, but the moment me and my men got near…well. Less luck on our parts. We only survived because of our fire.”

“Some of our snares were burned open, and we lost a few more supplies one night, though we found some wild fruits and berries in their place. Didn’t see him, but I’d say the scrawny little thief’s still out there. I’ve got to say, I didn’t think he’d make it this long.”

He still spoke of other matters, of course - beasts encountered, spirits evaded, dangers faced - but before long it had become almost customary for him to return from an expedition, go for a drink, and immediately be asked if he’d seen the exile this time, if there had been an encounter with the thief, had there been any sign of Wan?

Somewhere between his failed rebellion and exile and the Huntsman’s own tales of his survival against all odds, Wan had gained a spot of notoriety. People he had never met knew his name, and even if there wasn’t always sympathy for the human thorn in the Huntsman’s side, there still tended to be a tone of admiration - however slight - for his sheer tenacity and the impossibility of his survival.

Word spread, as did interest. Time passed.

“The way Wan moves fire…it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen…”

Half the outskirts slowly emptied as first one group, then another, and then another went to the lion turtle and struck out on their own, fire in their hands and hope in their eyes, because if Wan could do it alone, then surely they could go together. The Huntsman protested when he could - the wilds were truly dangerous and while they should be approached with courage, foolhardy overconfidence could prove deadly, and Wan’s uncanny ways were his alone - but the determined didn’t heed his words; they didn’t want to, unless those words were what they wished to hear.

To the Huntsman, it had only been talk.

* * *

Spirits, the Huntsman was fond of saying, were as thick in the wilds as leaves on a summer tree. This was exaggeration, perhaps, but it was as close to poetry as he had ever come, and it impressed people besides.

Then, one day, a violet light swept across the sky, staining the world as far as the eye could see. It didn’t remain for very long, but it was terrifying while it lasted, and rumors raced from one end of the city to the other. By the time the Chous sent a delegation to confer with the lion turtle, word had it that the world had ended five times over, each in a different manner, and a sixth ending was coming. The delegation had to push through a small crowd of what remained of the lower classes of the city, many looking for guidance themselves if not for fire to cast about in ill-advised self defense.

“The world is changing,” the lion turtle said. “Now, all that remains is to wait and see what that change will bring.”

No matter how the people pressed, it would say no more.

Soon, however, the beginnings of the change became apparent. Spirits grew active in the wilds, their movements so open that they were visible from the walls and rooftops of the city itself. Rumors spread once again of the end of the world and of humanity - the light had been a call, a sign, a darkness, they said. The spirits were rallying to attack. They would be wiped out. They needed fire.

The wilds buzzed and roiled with motion for a day, then grew still and quiet. Spirits moved in somber lines and packs across the ground and through the air, all heading south, hundreds and hundreds more than even the Huntsman had ever thought existed. He was among those watching from the rooftops as they went.

The city kept to itself long after the last spirits were seen, but they needed more food than they could cultivate on the lion turtle’s back, and soon there was no more time to waste. The Huntsman took whatever volunteers he could scrape together and went.

Wan hadn’t been seen in over a year - dead, probably; no man’s luck could last forever - but this time, there wasn’t so much as a scrap of a spirit about either, and without them the forest felt less like wilds and more like wilderness. His sparse volunteers began to speak cautiously of impossible hopes. The Huntsman was uncertain what to think or feel.

Spirits were as thick in the wilds as leaves on a summer tree…until, suddenly, they weren’t.

* * *

Months later, it felt like a new world, a new age. The Huntsman still led expeditions for food, and they still took fire with them, but it was only to ward off the more dangerous wild beasts that prowled deep in the forest. They ranged further afield than ever before, discovering new paths, new territory, without fear of stepping into the wrong swath of grass or brushing against the wrong bush. The occasional wolfboar was easy to evade, drive away, or fight down compared to memories of beings which could look like anything - or like nothing at all - until they appeared directly behind you, under your feet, or inside your own head without warning.

He had more volunteers now, people curious about the outside world and willing to see it now that they were assured of returning with the same faces they ventured out with. The Huntsman had held onto caution for a long time, just in case a spirit or two still remained, but it was easing under the days and weeks of relative safety. The new was finally beginning to feel normal.

And then Wan came back.

They were going to the lion turtle before another hunting trip, the Huntsman and half a dozen others. It was early morning, calm and clear, birds singing in the trees and a thin plume of smoke rising from the promontory where they customarily stood to accept and return the power of fire.

This was the first sign.

The second was when the Huntsman realized, as they drew nearer, that the lion turtle’s head was already up. There was a low sound rising and falling on the wind, a sound which grew clearer as they drew closer, gaining the familiar cadence of the lion turtle’s slow, solemn speech. It fell away into silence before they came near enough to make out words; the lion turtle’s eyes followed them on their final ascent.

And there, at the top, stood a familiar figure, the smoldering remains of a campfire at his feet and a docile catdeer lying nearby. Wan’s face gazed at the Huntsman from beneath shaggy hair. He smiled. It wasn’t the belligerent flash of teeth the Huntsman remembered, cocky, crooked, and sly; this one was slighter, still tilted at one corner with a kind of self-assuredness, but calm and welcoming.

The Huntsman stopped his party several feet away; near enough to speak without shouting, far enough that they were out of easy reach. Wan may have looked more mature, but he still remembered losing several supplies and more than one direct confrontation to the boy. He remembered how he moved fire, as if he himself were flame made flesh.

“So. You’re not dead after all,” the Huntsman said. “Where have you been?”

He heard shifting and murmuring behind him; his two senior hunters answering the queries of the new volunteers, a hum of curiosity as the entire expedition remembered the mysterious firebending thief of the Huntsman’s old stories.

“Here and there,” said Wan, “mostly far away. I came back because I need to talk to the people here - all of them.”

“You’re not allowed back in the city,” the Huntsman pointed out.

“Then bring them to me.”

The Huntsman nearly laughed. Empty the city to hear the unknown words of an exile? Or, if not the entire city, the Chous, or perhaps their representatives, as the rulers of the rest? Ridiculous.

He nearly laughed. He didn’t, because as it bubbled up in his throat he caught sight of the lion turtle looming behind Wan and gazing solemnly down at them all, its expression as serious as the exile’s had become. He remembered hearing the great being’s voice as they approached and realized who it must have been speaking with. The laugh caught. He swallowed it down.

“How serious is this?” he asked, just to be sure.

“It concerns the fate of every human that lives,” said the lion turtle, and that more than anything convinced the Huntsman to turn his expedition around and return with all speed, directing them to various quarters of the city to rouse all they could while he himself visited the great house in the very center, the home of the Chou family.

When he left the city again hours later, it was at the back of a long and scattered procession of people, and it was with a sudden and haunting feeling of loss. He paused at the gates and looked back over the streets, more silent and empty than they had ever been before, and felt the urge to drink it in and commit it all to memory.

Then he followed the crowd to hear the simplified summary of a tale more astonishing than any he had ever told, and to receive the words of their lion turtle at the close:

“The world is entering a new age…”


End file.
